#EnglishWriters
ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdain’d For thee to disdain it; One hope is too like despair
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken… Rose leaves, when the rose is dead…
Ye hasten to the grave! What seek… Ye restless thoughts and busy purp… Of the idle brain, which the world… O thou quick heart, which pantest… All that pale Expectation feignet…
Is it that in some brighter sphere We part from friends we meet with… Or do we see the Future pass Over the Present’s dusky glass? Or what is that that makes us seem
The flower that smiles to—day To—morrow dies; All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies. What is this world’s delight?
And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls I felt, but heard not:—through white columns glowed There streamed a sunbright vapour, like the standard Louder and louder, gathering ...
And said I that all hope was fled… That sorrow and despair were mine, That each enthusiast wish was dead… Had sank beneath pale Misery’s sh… Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow gl…
No trump tells thy virtues’the g… With thy dust shall remain unpollu… Till thy foes, by the world and by… Shall pass like a mist from the li… VII.
The Elements respect their Maker’… Still Like the scathed pine tree’… Braving the tempests of the night Have I 'scaped the flickering fla… Like the scathed pine, which a mon…
(With what truth may I say— Roma! Roma! Roma! Non e piu come era prima!) My lost William, thou in whom Some bright spirit lived, and did
Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm whose tears are vain,
The flower that smiles to-day To-morrow dies; All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies. What is this world’s delight?
Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets’ food is love and fame: If in this wide world of care Poets could but find the same With as little toil as they,
Honey from silkworms who can gathe… Or silk from the yellow bee? The grass may grow in winter weath… As soon as hate in me. II.
It lieth, gazing on the midnight s… Upon the cloudy mountain-peak supi… Below, far lands are seen tremblin… Its horror and its beauty are divi… Upon its lips and eyelids seems to…